


Disconnected Drabbles of a Troubled Teenager

by TheStarkster



Category: No Fandom, Original Work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-20
Updated: 2021-01-20
Packaged: 2021-03-11 23:07:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28875426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheStarkster/pseuds/TheStarkster
Summary: Just random drabbles that come to mind from time to time, in a diary form.





	Disconnected Drabbles of a Troubled Teenager

**Entry 1**

I have a math class early tomorrow morning.

As I lie in my cocoon of blankets in the cold December night, I think about myself. My story arc, if you prefer. I glance at the large shelves bulging with books, once the pride of my life, now covered in dust, and I close my eyes and turn my face away.

I used to be a reader. I’d read and read and read some more until my whole life was books, and my mind was more alive in my stories than in the real world. I read with incessant, maddening hunger, like a person possessed, poring over the ochre yellow pages as though they held the meaning of life itself. I never fit in with my friends; I was too quiet, too distant, too closed off to show that I cared. So, I loved these flexible little slices of wood instead, because it felt as though far, far away, some author long dead was the only one to understand me.

I had a special fondness for older books, preferably English authors over American, because their writing had a special tinge to it, a tang, perhaps, of something vintage, beautiful and wonderful, of days past. I used to, and still do, have a large cupboard full of books, at least three or four rows of shelves, packed closely with books, in at least two layers, with more resting on top of the layers.

I was alone, but never lonely. I didn’t need anyone or anything. I was at peace with myself. I could walk, my mind blissfully blank, happy in the humid air and the blue-green evening aura of the monsoon.

But then I grew up.

Life didn’t get easier. It became much tougher. I inherited my grandfather’s stubbornness. His ambition. I tried to be best at everything.

And I succeeded.

I was the best student. I had the best grades. In a wild party, I was the one with the best behaviour. When I finally passed high school, I was first. The best.

Somewhere along the line, I let go my love for the arts. You cannot appreciate art without having the adequate amount of time, you cannot predict how long it will need for you to truly love something that comes from the depth of the soul.

_How long is forever? Sometimes, just one second._

The quote also works the other way, that sometimes even one second can last forever.

I took up the sciences. They were easy to understand, logical, predictable. I could learn them easily, they made sense, they took a definite order, and I could remember them.

From the time I was fourteen, I learnt and studied and read about science until I could read no more, until they were my life, until they were my future, my career.

Today I was sitting there, listening to a lecture on chemical bonds, when I suddenly saw a quote on Pinterest. I don’t remember the quote. I scrolled past it, but something, _something_ made me go back and click on it. And below it I saw more quotes, which made no sense to my logically inclined brain, but they struck some deep chord within me, a note that I had almost forgotten existed.

_Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing there is a field. I’ll meet you there._

It makes no sense. None at all. Then why can’t I let go? Why am I even writing this?

Because I understand. Some part of me understands what he is trying to say, what he is trying to tell me all the way from the thirteenth century, that there is a place beyond right and wrong, a place to simply _be_ , without owing anyone anything. I can’t explain it. Each person sees art differently. We’re like the blind men touching various parts of an elephant and forming different opinions.

But why? Why now, suddenly, after almost four years, did I feel that strange nostalgia for something which I have neither time nor use for? Why do I suddenly remember random quotes from books I haven’t read in years?

_“Let us stay.”_

_“We will be found. We cannot escape from the others.”_

_“The jungle is big.”_

_“Even the world is too small. Perhaps there is more freedom in your little room than in all the jungle and all the world.”_

And I suddenly realize- I walked too fast. I became too rushed. I went so far ahead that I left this behind _this_ , my ability to not simply understand the world, but to love it as well, to see the swirls of paint on the canvas of life.

I gained a lot. I’m at the top of my class. I’m faster than other students. I’ve got countless awards.

But I lost something- something that was important to me.

I lost my peace of mind.

_‘He needs your prayers.’_

_‘Is he then an unhappy man?’_

_Poirot said: ‘So unhappy that he has forgotten what happiness means. So unhappy that he does not know he is unhappy.’_

_The nun said softly: ‘Ah, a rich man …’ Hercule Poirot said nothing – for he knew there was nothing to say …”_

I take a deep breath. I will change it. I will begin again. I will take a break tomorrow, and I will start over.

And I will read. Dickens, Doyle, London, anything and everything, searching for the spark that was lost. Because it has to be somewhere, _somewhere-_

My phone buzzes on the bedside table, a reminder popping up. I curse and silence the reminder, turning in to sleep.

After all, I have a math class early tomorrow morning.


End file.
